


and though she be but little, she is fierce

by Meskeet



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Constance should be a Musketeer, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Porthos stop getting shot, Shakespeare gets credit for the title, Whump, Women Being Awesome, near-drowning, thebetabranch
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-16
Updated: 2014-07-16
Packaged: 2018-02-06 15:05:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,387
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1862289
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Meskeet/pseuds/Meskeet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Porthos is shot by horse thieves, it's up to Constance to escape their prison before time runs out. In which Porthos gets shot in the opening act, leaving all the swordfighting, thief stopping, and cellar escaping to Constance.</p>
            </blockquote>





	and though she be but little, she is fierce

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Red_Tigress](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Red_Tigress/gifts).



> Written for TheBetaBranch fic swap challenge off of a prompt by Red Tigress and rather belatedly posted for Constance Appreciation Week over on Tumblr. Thanks to red_b_rackham and tenebrielle for the betaing - if you'd like to find some equally awesome betas, check out TheBetaBranch for a whole squad of them.

Constance smiled as the dog chased after the meat pie she had thrown. While it was distracted, she climbed over the fence, mumbling curses as her skirts caught on a rusty nail. She pulled them loose, frowning as she heard a loud tearing sound. She looked towards the dog, but it was scarfing down the meat pie, tail wagging happily.

She hopped down from the fence, her shoes landing in the mud. "Don't even know  _why_ I volunteered for this," she mumbled sourly. She originally had been out to deliver some specially tailored dresses to a client in the country that for health reasons couldn't make it back into Paris. Porthos had come with her, finding his own assignment in the same small town, looking for a horse thief. The horse thief, however, had been stealing horses of a breeder favored by the King, making it Musketeers business.

She had been dragged into this mess when Porthos asked if she'd just peek into the stables while he distracted the primary suspect. Initially, it had sounded thrilling, but like most things in her life it was quickly turning into a poorly thought out annoyance.

She sprinted towards the barn, opening and then slamming the door shut behind her as the dog looked up from its meat pie. She took a deep breath, smiling as she looked around her. 

Six horses were all tethered in the barn, each saddled and ready to be ridden. They were not work horses, but young, beautifully bred chestnut and bay stallions. 

She walked over to the nearest one, and it snorted at her, giving a little spirited shake of its mane. “Well, that wasn’t so hard.”

“Who’s there?” a voice shouted from the rafters. A man’s dirty face appeared above her, and she saw his eyes widen comically in surprise. His head disappeared again and there was a scuffling noise as she heard more than one voice coming down the ladder.

Constance decided she’d rather face the dog than three armed men. She bolted out the barn doors, threw her second meat pie at the dog, and sprinted towards the fence. She heard shouting behind her. She leapt at the fence, scrambling over, cursing as her skirts got caught again before giving them a hard tug. They came loose and with a little “Oof!” she found herself falling. 

Strong arms caught her, and she looked up into Porthos’ surprised face. “What-” but then he saw the men running in their direction and shouting.

“Silly me,” she panted. “I’ve gone and got their attention.”

Porthos frowned, drawing his own sword and handing it to her. “Try and get back into the barn, I saw another man run in there.”

“What will you do?” she asked, eyeing the sword-less man and the ruffians sprinting at them.

He smiled at her, picking a pumpkin off the ground. “Improvise.”

Constance huffed even as she tested the sword in her hand. It was heavier than the one she’d practiced with, but it wouldn’t be too much of a drawback if she managed to take the man by surprise. She’d done it before, after all. “You can’t be serious.”

He held the pumpkin in one hand, his genuine smile turning into a smirk as his gaze was drawn to their pursuers. “I wager that I can take care of them before you reach the barn,” Porthos told her. “Be caref-

The words worked as Porthos intended – Constance tossed her head, weighing the distance rapidly closing between the men and Porthos. 

“Ten sous,” she told him presumptuously. “And I expect to collect.”

Porthos’ laugh nipped at her heels as she sprinted, cursing at the heavy swish of fabric around her legs.  _Again_  the fabric caught at her heels, and she uttered an oath she’d learned from an inebriated d’Artagnan after he had stubbed his toe late one night. 

“One!” Porthos called and she glanced back to see him deliver a hefty kick to an orange-splattered opponent. Constance almost tripped over her skirts and took a few precious moments to tie the bottom of the length high on her hip. It was just as well that the men they were fighting would never come in contact with her husband.

“Two!”

This time, Constance didn’t look back and she raced forward, feet slapping at the ground. She almost fumbled Porthos’ sword in her sweaty grasp, but managed to steady the heavy sword before it slipped. This time, she didn’t even bother trying to distract the dog – she was completely out of meat pies and the dog looked more inclined to look for its next meal than to jump her. Nimbly Constance made her way into the stable (beating Porthos’ defeat of the third man), blinking as her eyes adjusted to the darkness.

She barely was able to react in time to bring up Porthos’ sword. She deflected the man’s blow with a clang, wrist twisting as she let the hit slip by her. The heavy weapon weighed her wrist down and Constance changed direction quickly, allowing the man to force her backwards step by step. She’d learned this – d’Artagnan had taught her what to do when outmatched. His instruction was why, right when the man began to relax at his sure victory, she picked up a nearby rake and slammed its end into his stomach.

He went down groaning and Constance followed through, bringing the wooden end down onto his head. For a moment, she simply stood there, panting. Slowly, she began to lower Porthos’ sword before she froze at the sound of two rapid gunshots and sharp whistle.

Cautiously, Constance made her way back over to the entrance, each step bringing with it an increasing feeling of dread. When she reached the doorway, Constance slowly peered around the side and felt her heart sank as she took in the scene.

Porthos on the ground, his back to the stables. He’d taken out three attackers, but must have been taken by surprise at the reappearance of a fourth and fifth assailant. Constance was, not surprisingly, not at all at ease with the odds suddenly stacked against them.

“Come out or I shoot him again, Musketeer!” the man with pistol in hang called. “I just want my horses then you can be on your way.”

Constance weighed the man’s sincerity and quickly decided he was probably lying. However, her decision didn’t exactly help her narrow down her choices.

Walk out and have both of them shot, or stay inside and let Porthos be killed for her cowardice. The second option was just as likely to get her killed after they were done with Porthos.

Constance sighed, once again regretting the original bout of stupidity that had gotten her in this position. She was no Musketeer, despite what Aramis, Porthos, and Athos (and d’Artagnan, when his head departed his ass) seemed to delude themselves into believing. She really should have known better than to let herself believe it as well. Except… Porthos trusted her. They all trusted her.

Which is what made her choice all the easier.

“I’m not a Musketeer!” she called hoarsely, even as she tossed Porthos’ sword into a stall and quickly kicked hay over it. It was the best she could do to keep it from scavenging hands, she reasoned. Constance went to the still-unconscious man’s body and quickly rummaged around in his clothing, procuring two very sharp knives that she quickly stowed away between her petticoat and outerware. Constance let her skirts down to her ankles once more, scowling as she went to the spirited young stallion she had seen earlier.

“I don’t care what you are,” came the roared response. “Come out, or I shoot, damn it!”

“No need to be coarse,” Constance snapped under her breath, then said louder, “Don’t shoot!”

It was quick work to slip the bit out from the colt’s teeth, leaving the remainder of the halter untouched. The horse she had approached earlier shook out its mane again, snorting as she took the time to give it a quick pat on the head. Constance checked that the bridle looked just the same as before, then went over to the second saddled horse and loosened the girth just enough to leave the saddle a bit unsteady. It wouldn’t do to make the horse-thieving too easy on the men, after all.

“Wait just a minute, will you?” Constance whispered, then took a deep breath and stepped into the sunlight with her hands up.

It was distinctly unnerving to find herself under gunpoint, and Constance wasn’t exactly reassured by the scowl on the man’s face as he peered at her.

“I didn’t know the Musketeers let women in,” the man said, taking a step closer to her and trodding over Porthos’ fingers as he did so. Constance winced but as Porthos’ eyes snapped open, chose to assume that he was simply biding his time for their grand escape rather than actually lying half-dead on the ground.

“As I said,” Constance told him, giving a disdainful toss of her head. “I am no Musketeer. I was hired-“

“I don’t want to hear your lies,” came the interruption, the thief’s voice smooth despite the hard edge. Constance swallowed and fell silent, blinking as a raindrop landed on her lashes. “Come here, or I’ll shoot him.”

“Oh for-“ Constance swallowed her angry retort. “Will you stop threatening to shoot him?”

“Just do as he says,” Porthos interrupted, voice heavy. Constance risked another glance at him, and clenched her teeth at the sight of his left hand clasped firmly around the growing stain on his leg. 

“I don’t need you to give me orders,” Constance told him with a clipped voice, but approached the group anyway as another raindrop landed on her nose. She had to resist the urge to pull her hood up around her face. She kept her stance as loose and nonthreatening as possible, hands spread down at her sides. “Well? Are you going to let us go?” 

The man had the nerve to sneer at her, jerking his head at his companion. “Tie her hands together,” he said coldly. “I don’t want her trying anything brave.”

“We’re not going anywhere,” Constance replied as soothingly as she could. “Really-“

She cut off at the boom of thunder over her head, wincing at how thickly the rain had begun to drench her clothes. There would be no way to conceal the likely ruined fabric from her husband upon her return.

 _If_  she returned.

Constance grit her teeth as the second bandit grabbed her roughly and wrapped what felt like a lead rope around her wrists, tying it so tightly she feared she would lose the feeling in her hands. She glared at what she assumed would be the thieves leader, wishing for a brief moment that she knew a curse she could level upon his head. Constance was no witch, however, so the thief simply returned her anger with a cool smile rather than dropping dead on the spot.

“We won’t kill you,” the man promised, but Constance still felt a chill go down her spine as his gaze stayed level with hers. There was something in his face that she could not trust – some hint of a razor sharp edge that left her afraid of taking a lethal cut. 

“Boss?” bandit number two asked uncertainly from behind her. Constance shifted her weight uneasily, boot almost slipping off as it caught in the thickening mud.

“Take them to the cellar,” the man ordered, jaw clenching. 

“But-“

“If they drown, they drown,” came the response. That was the catch Constance had been waiting for. “But they will be alive when we leave them. I know these Musketeers. If we kill him or his woman, it’ll bring the whole company down on our heads.”

Constance stumbled as the man gave her a rough shove, and then she really  _did_ lose her boot. She tried to turn back, but the man pushed her again and she almost fell to her knees. 

“Wait!” she snapped. “He can’t walk.”

Indeed, Porthos seemed to be discovering that – the bandit leader had hauled him to his feet and stepped away, and it appeared to be taking most of Porthos’ willpower to not fall over. Constance wondered what d’Artagnan would have done in her place. Would he have lunged forward and disarmed the men? Would he have stolen a pistol and shot the leader despite the gun being trained on his back? Porthos probably would. Athos would have used one man as a shield while he slayed the other. Aramis would have simply shot them without leaving the barn.

But Constance was just Constance. No sharpshooter, no close combat expert. So she turned her head to the bandit manhandling her and raised her chin just slightly.

“I can assist him,” she told him, the words neither a question or a request. Constance backtracked to Porthos, wincing as her stockings quickly soaked through with water. She slipped under Porthos’ arm quickly, unable to help him grasp her shoulders with her hands bound as they were. He gripped her tightly and for a brief moment, she couldn’t help but think of the bruises his hand will likely leave. It was a sign of how tired and pained he must have been that he didn’t protest the help.

 _Or,_ the more hopeful thought came to her, _that’s what he wants him to think._

That thought helped steady her head as she takes a step back in the direction they’d been forcing her before.

“Move faster,” the bandit leader growled, and Constance caught her breath at the sound of the gun’s pin clicking back. She took another step forward, following the lackey as quickly as she could. Porthos was a deadweight against her, and even though the rain falls thick and loud, she could hear his labored breathing in her ear. 

“Are you alright?” she asked as they sloughed through the mud. Constance recalled that she’d heard not one, but two gunshots earlier. “Where are you injured?”

“Leg,” Porthos grunted from between clenched teeth, almost slipping in the mud as the ground became even more uneven and slippery. Constance flinched at the sound of thunder cracking overhead, barely steadying Porthos as he slipped a second time. “And shoulder. Doesn’t feel like anything vital.”

“I suppose we’ll find out if you drop dead,” she couldn’t help but reply, and to her surprise, he laughed.

“Aye. Where’s my sword?”

“I left it hidden in the stables.” Now that she had him talking, Constance she didn't want to allow him to stop. “I don’t suppose you have a plan?” 

Porthos didn’t respond at first, and when he did, it sounded more like a question then anything else. “Escape?”

It took her a few moments, but Constance managed to bite back her first reply. After tempering it, she hissed at him, “That’s it?”

They both stumbled as their feet hit paved ground, and it was then that Constance realized they’d reached the end of their journey. The cellar entrance lay just a few feet away from them, a silent and foreboding destination. Constance shook her wet hair away from her face, a loose strand slapping Porthos in the face.

“I think it’s a perfectly solid plan,” he defended. “It’s worked before.”

“I’m sure it has,” Constance replied, barely managing to keep her voice to a whisper. “I’m sure it works all the time when you have Athos or Aramis or something else who regularly spend their time getting into all sorts of dangerous situations. I am a tailor’s wife, Porthos, and I’d like something a bit more than ‘escape’ to-“

“Constance,” Porthos said, voice level. His tone caught her attention and she fell quiet. “We’ll be fine. They don’t want to kill us, and the others should be on their way soon when they realize we missed our meeting with them in the next town over. At least we’ll be able to dry off, rather than be tied to a fencepost in the rain.”

For a brief moment, Constance actually believed him as they were led to the open cellar entrance. It didn’t matter that they were about to be thrown into an old cellar or that the thieves were clearly preparing to make a clear getaway on horseback. Porthos had been in this situation more times than she had, after all, and Constance could trust him to know what he was talking about.

At least, she believed that up until they hit the cellar floor and landed in a solid three feet of water.

She sputtered as they hit the water, and for a brief moment she had to fight down panic as her head unexpectedly tipped below the surface. Constance found her feet quickly enough and rose, sloshing over to where Porthos sheepishly clung to an old wagon wheel at the side of the cellar.

“Dried off?” Constance asked, and watched with some satisfaction as Porthos gulped at her. “I don’t feel very  _dried off_.”

And on that note, the bandits slammed the cellar doors shut, and Constance felt a fresh spray of water hit her in the face. It appeared as though the cellar door must have sustained damage at some point – there was a crack a handswidth wide between the two doors, and another hole in the right hand door that Constance could easily shove her fist through, if only she could reach it. At least that explained the source of the water – with the cellar entrance at the lowest point of the pasture area, there was nowhere else for the rain to go.

Which left Constance and Porthos at the bottom of a rapidly filling cellar.

Constance watched the doors jerk as the thieves finished tying the doors shut, and she couldn’t help but sigh.

“I should have stabbed them, and to hell with the consequences,” she mused aloud. 

“It’s hard to do much stabbing without proper weaponry,” Porthos pointed out, and she was hit by the sheer exhaustion in his voice. “I doubt it would have gotten us far, anyway.”

Constance shifted uncomfortably as the water lapped higher, pulling uncomfortably at the bonds on her hands. “Porthos?” she asked uncertainly. “Can you get my hands free?”

He titled his head slightly, still braced against the old wagon wheel. His eyes were nothing more than shadowy holes in the darkness.

“A bit difficult without a knife, but I can try,” came the slow reply. 

Constance smiled at him, although his eyes were closed. “I can help with that,” she told him, approaching him cautiously. “Just give me a moment.”

It took a fair amount of wiggling, but eventually she manage to pull a knife free of her skirts…

And then she promptly lost her grip as it snagged in the fabric. Constance cursed, avoiding Porthos’ raised brow. “I have another one,” she said. 

Porthos shook his head with a smile. “You carry knives?”

“No, but the man you sent me after did,” Constance replied pertly even as she tried to pull the second knife free. As the water lapped higher, she took a deep breath and slipped underwater, twisting until she had to come up for another breath. Luckily, she managed to pull the second knife free as she did so. 

She approached Porthos carefully, turning around and letting him take the knife from her hands. It took him longer than expected to cut her free, and when the knife nicked her skin more than once, Constance didn’t complain. She could feel his hands shaking as he managed to saw through the rope. When her hands broke free, she inhaled and moved away from him.

“Close your eyes,” Constance ordered Porthos after she took in a breath. She shivered slightly in the cool water, yanking at the sodden fabric clinging to her ankles. Porthos rolled his eyes but complied.

To Constance’s relief, her gown was shed easily enough. Happily she kicked away the sodden fabric, aware that as the water continued to rise, it would only weigh her down. Now, left in nothing but her corset, petticoat and one boot, Constance couldn't help but laugh giddily. Jacques was going to kill her, Constance thought, and perhaps she shouldn’t have giggled at the thought. 

She did though, and to her surprise, the smile on Porthos’ face faltered when she shared the thought. Constance shook her head, taking time to glance around their prison. By her estimate, the cellar was about seven feet high. Maybe if Porthos lifted her, she’d be able to reach the door and saw open the rope they’d used to close the door.

A quick glance at Porthos revealed that, no, he would not be lifting anything soon. Still thinking her glance was directed elsewhere, he listed slightly to the side, eyes half open as his grasp on the old wheel slowly loosened. When his grip finally slipped, Constance was ready – nimbly, she ducked through the sheet of water pouring into the center of the room to halt his sideways descent.

“C’nstan?” he slurred. Constance frowned, wishing that there was a place he could properly left. She hopped slightly as the water level continued to rise, grimacing as it hit her about the neck. 

“Just a moment,” she replied, and to her relief her voice stayed steady. She made her way over to the wall, pulling Porthos gently behind her. She hadn’t taken the time to get a good look at her surroundings – it appeared as though the cellar had been used to keep old wagon parts out of the elements. Constance examined the wheel against the wall, nodding to herself as she pulled Porthos closer.

He didn’t protest as she wedged his body into the wheel, keeping one foot and one hand in between the spokes. Constance used the length of rope he’d cut from her to lightly bind his good hand to the wood. If he needed to, she had no doubt he’d be able to break free.

Porthos taken care of, Constance found herself with no choice but to let her feet leave the ground. She’d never been a strong swimmer, but three older brothers had taught her at least how to keep her head above water. 

It seemed like an eternity before she could kick herself high enough for her fingers to graze the crack between the cellar doors, knife clenched between her teeth. There’d been a brief moment of panic when Porthos had slipped the binding and his head had sunk below water. When Constance had managed to haul him out and retie his hand higher, she had accidentally elbowed him in his bad shoulder. 

The noise he’d made wasn’t one she ever wanted to hear again. Constance had checked his back and found her growing dread was correct – the ball hadn’t exited, likely becoming lodged in bone or muscle. She scowled at that. Between the unclean rainwater, the still bleeding wounds, and the passing time, Porthos would be lucky to escape infection.

Now, Constance gripped at the wood, ignoring the splinters digging into her skin. Her arms shook from bearing her weight, and Constance cursed herself for not putting in more hours wielding d’Artagnan’s rapier. She fell back in the water with a splash, startling Porthos from his listless state.

“Constance?” he slurred slowly.

“Sorry,” she replied from behind clenched teeth. “I’m trying to reach the rope holding the door shut.”

Constance checked a glance at Porthos and found his eyes open and steady on her. “How do you feel?” she asked, for lack of anything better to say.

“Been better,” came the reply. “Any sign of the others?”

“No,” she said uncertainly, surprised at the labored quality of her own voice. Porthos held out a hand to her and she took it, allowing him to pull her closer to the wall. “Do you think they’ll make it in time?”

“You’ll be fine,” Porthos dodged the question neatly. Constance didn’t miss the  _you_  in place of  _we_. He leaned his head back, and Constance felt the water ripple at his slight shiver.

“Porthos,” she said warningly, but stopped, not sure what to say.

“You sound like Athos.” Porthos grinned, but the amusement slipped away. “Sorry to drag you into this.”

Constance wasn’t sure what to say to that. She was nearly naked, freezing, paddling in a cellar full of water and he wanted to  _apologize?_

It hadn’t even occurred to her to feel angry, so fixated on survival as she was. 

“Sorry you got shot,” she said, in lieu of anything else to say.

“I’ve taken worse from Aramis,” came the cheerful lie. “He has pretty awful aim when he’s drunk. Did I ever tell you about the time one of his ladies’ husband shot me?”

Constance wasn’t sure if she should believe him or not, but Porthos looked to be in deadly earnest. “I think I would have remembered that.”

“Oh, it’s a good one,” Porthos said. “Every time I bring it up, Aramis has to buy me a round of drinks. I’d received word that her husband was going to be arriving at their estate unexpectedly, so I snuck into the manor to warn Aramis. What I did not consider was that it would appear as though I was robbing the house, so when I-“

Constance listened with a fair amount of incredulity, laughing as he described Aramis’ antics. When he finally finished with a flourish, she couldn’t help but to say, “Did he really ask you to run faster?”

“With a bullet in my leg? Yes. I’ve never seen him so afraid for his life,” Porthos clenched his jaw, looking as though he was barely resisting the urge to shiver. Constance helped steady him as he almost slipped off the wheel, allowing several moments of silence to pass. She tried her best to ignore the darkening water around them both, casting her revulsion of blood away in favor of concern.

“I’m going to try again,” she told Porthos calmly, aware that his eyes had slipped shut.

If he heard her, he didn’t reply. Constance made her way beside him, gripping onto the wheel that lay well beneath the surface. Carefully, she tipped Porthos’ head back, aiming to give him as much time above air as she could.

She didn’t know what they would do when the water became too deep for him to brace his feet on the top of the wheel. She didn’t know what they would do when Porthos could no longer keep his feet under him. 

Constance tried once again to reach the top, fingers slipping out of the crack as she strained to reach. She spluttered, shaking her head automatically against the pouring water. To her relief, it felt as though the continuous stream had abated somewhat. 

But not entirely. Now, Constance could reach the top without bothering to jump. Cautiously, she slipped the knife free from the base of her corset, ignoring the flash of pain as it cut into her hip. Constance determinedly raised it, sawing as best as she could at the strip of rawhide they’d bound the cellar closed with, cursing thieves and Musketeers all the while. 

Finally she managed to cut through it, but it wasn’t until she tried to push the door open that she realized her next predicament.

She had no leverage against the heavy door.

“Damn it,” she snapped in frustration. Porthos didn’t say anything, which meant he was likely entirely out of the count. It was up to her now.

Constance was  _no_ t going to drown in the cellar of a horse thief. She absolutely  _refused_  to die in nothing more than her corset and petticoat. 

It was the second thought that gave her the idea. Calmly, Constance retrieved her voluminous clothing from where it floated on the surface of the water, aware that the good quality fabric wouldn’t be easy to tear. Calmly she thrust the edge of the fabric through the center, reaching her other hand through the hole she’d noted earlier. Constance ignored the sting of the rough wood against her forearm, twisting until she could manage to reach the end. 

She pulled that end through the hole, smiling in triumph. Constance then gripped either end of the damnable skirt in her hand, braced her back against the wall and  _kicked._

It took four hefty blows to do it, but Constance’s feet managed to break through on the last. For a moment, she could only gape in surprise as the left hand cellar door flew free.

“I did it,” she said, more out of surprise than anything else. “Porthos, we’re-“

But the words died in her throat when she saw him. They could celebrate later. 

Constance climbed out of the cellar, straining to pull Porthos out. His weight was too much for her – even as she tried to pull him free, her feet sank into the mud. By the time she managed to wrest him free, she was panting and utterly exhausted.

But the escape wasn’t yet over. Constance hoisted his good arm across her shoulders, staggering as she tried to reach the barn. God willing, the thieves would have been forced to leave a horse behind. 

Constance wouldn’t remember much of the trek, later. She fell more times than she could count, her unshod foot throbbing as she twisted her ankle more than once. It seemed as though days, not merely hours, had passed since Porthos had sent her into the barn. She shook so badly from the cold it was a miracle she didn’t wake Porthos, and sighed with relief when the rain settled from a downpour into a light drizzle that eventually stopped. 

Or perhaps not a miracle, for when her fumbling fingers found their way to his neck, his pulse was faint and slow.

Constance could have cried with relief when they reached the barn. She didn’t even question her good fortune at finding one mudsplattered colt standing in the barn, saddle below its belly, or even the fact that the man from earlier hadn’t stirred from where she left him. It appeared as though her trick with the saddle had worked, and she wasn’t prepared to question either stroke of good fortune. Gently, Constance lowered Porthos to the ground, hesitating as she tried to decide what to do next.

Bind his wounds, or prepare to leave?

Constance didn’t waste much time in deliberation. Carefully, she made her way over to where she’d stowed his sword earlier then returned to Porthos’ side. It was quick work to take his belt – it was similar enough to d’Artagnan’s that her fingers scarcely fumbled – and put it on her own hips, shoving the sword into a position where it wouldn’t pose much of a danger to herself. 

She cursed (she’d been spending too much time around the soldiers, really she had) as she realized she couldn’t possibly have anything dry to bind his wounds with, but a quick survey of the tackroom procured several clean bandages likely meant for the horses. They worked though, and she was able to leave Porthos with two tightly bound wounds. 

And still, he did not stir.

Constance went to the colt, soothing it as she slowly adjusted the horse’s saddle. She tightened the girth quickly, leading him over to where Porthos lay, a drenched heap on the ground.

He needed help, and quickly.

Arms shaking, Constance pulled him upright, hissing as she tried to keep the colt still. When he jerked in her arms, she almost dropped him from surprise.

“Constance?”

At least he knew where he was, she thought, even as his elbow slammed into her ribs. “What did you do that for?” she demanded, feeling his body relax at the sound of her voice. 

“Whe’re we?” he asked, a breathy noise.

“Stables. Are you able to mount?” 

There was a long silence, and then a not very comforting, “I’ll do it if it kills me.”

“Let’s hope it doesn’t after all my hard work,” Constance joked rather sheepishly. His laugh was a comforting rumble against her skin, and as the colt finally stop trying to twitch away from them, she said, “On three?”

“On one,” he replied, and she knew the trembling against her wasn’t due to just the cold. His leg buckled and shook under his body, so Constance didn’t protest at his, “ _Now_.”

She helped him to the saddle, wincing as he almost tipped off the other side of the horse. To her relief, the colt didn’t shy at the sudden movement, but instead remained still until Porthos managed to tightly grip his mane. Constance swung up behind him, hoping that the colt would be able to take their weight despite the mud outside.

She found the stirrups quickly, adjusting them until she felt comfortable with the reach. Then, Constance clucked to the colt, tapping him gently until he moved forward. She let him stay at a brisk walk, not willing to risk a canter in the poor ground. The rain had died off entirely, and the sun even shone through the clouds.

Constance didn’t think it was possible for her to be more annoyed than she already was, but the gathering heat and humidity was a poor reward for their escape. 

“This isn’t how I expected my day to end,” Constance admitted.

“You mean, you didn’t expect a quick check for stolen horses to lead you on a life of equine thievery?”

“I  _commandeered_  this horse,” Constance told him loftily. “In the King’s name.”

“We’ll make a Musketeer of you yet,” Porthos told her. 

Constance much preferred that they did not, but she didn’t get the chance to tell Porthos, because a sharp whistle cut her off.

“Constance!” at first she didn’t recognize the voice, as tired as she was. “Porthos!”

Then, “Constance!”

D’Artagnan and Athos. Her head snapped up, and she could have cheered at the sight of three horses approaching them. Instead, she smiled, lifting her arm in a wave.

Things happened in a flurry after that. Constance dismounted, hopping to the ground and almost pitching into d’Artagnan as he swung down. Aramis steadied Porthos as he reached them, pulling his friend from the colt into the saddle in front of him.

“Eyes on me,” Constance told the gaping d’Artagnan when he took in her attire. 

“Constance, are… did-“ d’Artagnan seemed at a complete loss for words, unsurprisingly enough. Constance considered the fact that Jacques was far away in Paris, and gave him a kiss on the cheek. 

“I’m fine. Porthos took two shots. Have you seen any sign of the bandits? We had two get away.”

“We found one on the ground, unconscious. It seems as though he took a fall from his horse,” Athos told her steadily. “We left the other one in the village jail.”

“Oh. That’s good,” Constance said, head spinning. D’Artagnan steadied her as she shook her head in an effort to clear it. “I don’t suppose one of you has my pack?”

* * *

  
Constance left the village shortly after that, aware that Jacques would become suspicious if her journey was delayed by more than a few days. Aramis and the village healer had assured her Porthos would be fine – apparently, they had only been in the cellar for a little over two hours, although it certainly seemed much longer. Constance was only mildly reassured by their summons, but when Porthos appeared on her doorstep two weeks later, she found a weight loosening off her chest.

“The queen requests for Constance to deliver these fabrics to the palace,” the familiar voice made her freeze from the kitchen, and cautiously Constance edged into the hall to see Porthos holding out a list to her husband.

Jacques blustered and scowled, but Porthos got his way in the end, and it was with some relief that she followed him from the house.

“I worried, with no news,” Constance told him quietly, watching him limp through the streets. Although he’d offered to help her carry the load, she’d rebuked his offer 

Porthos gave her a smirk, “You do care,” he said, “even if you won’t accept my help.”

“It should be me offering to help you,” she pointed out, rather fairly in her opinion. “You took out most of the horse thieves, after all, and you almost died.”

“Ah, the only true danger came from dying of shame,” Porthos said genially. 

“I must have simply imagined the bullet wounds,” Constance huffed, adjusting the load of cloth in her arms. 

Perhaps Porthos heard the smile in her voice, because he said, “What bullet wounds?”

Constance narrowed her eyes at him, deliberately picking up a faster pace. Porthos kept up at first, but when he began to lag behind, she slowed her gait. “Those bullet wounds, I’d say,” she told him.

“Ah, _those_ ,” he returned. There was a pause, the silence more comfortable than Constance expected. “Thank you, Constance,” he said at long last.

She smiled at him, surprised by how genuine the smile felt. “I’m not going to say it was my pleasure,” she began. “But, you know.”

He chuckled again. “I’ll have d’Artagnan bring you some flowers or sommat,” he told her.

Constance could only imagine how well Jacques would take  _that_. “No need,” she told him. “You already told me how to get Aramis to pay for drinks.”

Porthos stopped when they were in sight of the palace gates, leaving Constance to turn back to face him in confusion. At his uncomfortable look, she sighed.

“The queen didn’t really want fabric, did she?” she asked.

He tried and failed to attain a suitably sheepish smile. “It was all we could come up with.”

“And by we, you mean…?”

“Aramis,” Porthos admitted. “So, er, seeing as you cannot obviously return to Jacques with the fabrics you left with, how much is this?”

She calculated the prices quickly and told him, choosing to ignore his swearing. “It’s fine,” she told him. “I know some clients that would welcome the fabric.”

He started to thank her, but she cut across him. “However, _you_  still owe me ten sous. I did reach the barn before you were done, after all. I expect payment by the end of the week."

And with that, she turned on her heel and strode away.


End file.
